T-Bag/Maytag, Want
Title: Birth of "Maytag"
Character/Pairing: T-Bag/Maytag
Prompt: #56, "Want"
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Second half of "What'd You Really Do", Maytag wants to be in T-Bag's gang oh-so-badly
Author's Notes: Um, yeah. Not much other than I dare say there's a relatively short third part to this because T-Bag is just too damn nice. It's all in the friendly "first meeting with Seth"-esque phase, and we all know that's just reelin' 'em in before he moves in for the kill. So for anyone who reads this and wonders where our beloved ruthless murderer is, he's there. Just hiding. But I'll bring him out in a third part. B) This was Maytag's moment to shine. And the name change is intentional after a certain important point.
Back and forth, back and forth, shoes clicking concrete, arms crossed over chest, back and forth, thinking so hard, back to the bars, can’t see a thing, everyone shouting, so loud, back and forth, make a plan, back again...
“Jesus, sit the fuck down,” Jason’s cell mate ordered from the top bunk, about ready to throw his book at the boy’s head. Jason stopped pacing at the bars and stared out, the cold metal pressing into his arm.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, scanning the cells across from them again. Nothing was going on. He wished he could see T-Bag’s cell. It was below them and down a ways, sometimes he could hear his voice above the others, joining one of the shouting matches. But he couldn’t see, and he wanted to see. “Wonder what he does.” A groan from the top bunk, not even needing Jason to specify who “he” was.
“Ain’t anything good. Whatever goes on down there, you don’t wanna know.”
Jason stared down as far as he could, as if he could will T-Bag’s cell to come into view. “I just wanna see,” he sighed, settling on watching a couple inmates across from them playing cards.
“Wait till he gets a new cellie. Whole cell block will hear. Whatever sick crush you got on that guy, s’gonna get you into trouble.”
“I don’t have a crush,” Jason spat, anger smoldering behind his dark blue eyes. He didn’t want romance, to be wined and dined and given roses and candy. He just wanted to be part of T-Bag’s little club, allowed to stand with him and walk with him and join the stupid fights that broke out.
“Whatever, dude, but when your ass is bleeding, and he shanks you, y’ain’t gettin’ any sympathy from me.”
“Shut up n’ count your track marks or something.”
Days passed, T-Bag largely ignoring the boy but shooting piercing looks his way whenever he caught him staring. Jason tried to stop watching, tried to learn chess and new card games, but his attention always wandered back to the tight t-shirt sporting figure strutting across the yard. Even with T-Bag’s threat fresh in his mind, temptation got the better of him.
Members of the Alliance took every opportunity to push him around, his body covered in bruises from being pushed into doorframes and knocked to the floor. But he always picked himself up and moved on. He’d show them soon enough.
The scene in the showers was nearly forgotten by the time Jason’s cell mate joined him for a game of poker in the yard, shuffling the well worn cards that barely had any pictures left on them, and dealing a hand. Jason’s was crap. Two of the cards had the numbers and suit written on them in blue pen because so much ink had worn off. The man had to get new cards. At least making an attempt, he threw three of them back and got his new cards before spilling what was on his mind.
“Can you help me with somethin’?”
“Depends,” the man mumbled, deep in thought over his cards. There was no money on the line, not even any possessions they could bet. Jason was slightly annoyed at how long he took.
“I need a piece of metal. Or...something.” His cell mate cocked an eyebrow, peering over the edge of his cards.
“For what?”
“I just need it, ok?” Jason snapped, wary of sharing too much of his idea.
“Only reason someone needs a piece of metal in here is a shank. Ain’t a whole lot of arts n’ crafts going on.” When Jason didn’t answer, he sighed, setting his cards face down on the bench between them. “You don’t need one. It’ll just get you hurt worse.”
“I ain’t gonna hurt no one, it’s just in case.”
“In case what?” he laughed, “T-Bag comes after you? Man, you could have ten knives n’ nothing’s gonna help you then. He’ll have you stripped, fucked, and dead before you even get your hand on one.” The thought made Jason shiver a little. Not the threat, the idea of T-Bag’s prowess with a blade. It was fitting, he decided.
“Maybe. But it’s just to make me feel better,” he pouted a little, a new approach in order. As his cell mate looked at the boy’s suddenly innocent eyes and bottom lip sticking out, his expression softened. Picking up his cards again, he groaned.
“It’s a bad idea. But,” he hesitated, knowing it would bring Jason nothing but trouble to be in possession of a weapon. All else failed, maybe Bellick would catch him with it and send him off to solitary, away from T-Bag for awhile. “I’ll get it for you. Just a little one.”
“Thank you,” Jason said sincerely, smile spread across his face. With the technicalities all in order, he just had to finalize the details.
It was a nice thin piece of steel. Or something. Jason had never really known the difference, but it was shiny, and already pretty sharp, and it would do fine. Needed something to hold onto, all the edges were pointy, and it hurt his hand to hold it very hard. His cell mate had said it was scrap from the shop, smuggled out in return for trafficking some unmentionable goods to another inmate. It made Jason a little sad to think of the man putting himself on the line for his own needs, but the feeling quickly passed when he thought of how proud he would make T-Bag.
Ripping a strip of fabric off one of his t-shirts, he wrapped it around the duller end of the scrap, creating enough of a handle to not cut his own hand. After a few test runs, thrusting at the air in front of him, threatening the wall of his cell, he shoved it under his mattress before anyone else saw.
Somehow, sleep came easier knowing that inches below was that potentially deadly little object. Or maybe it was the thoughts of how impressed T-Bag would be with little Jason....little Maytag, he scoffed, already hating the name. But he wasn’t about to argue with someone who called himself T-Bag.
The sun had tried to break out from behind the clouds a few times but never quite made it. All the yard saw was a slightly brighter gloom in the monotony of green grass, clouds, and blue prison outfits. T-Bag sat reclined on the bleachers, bored with the terribly uneventful afternoon and considering scaring up some trouble with the black inmates if something didn’t happen. His boys didn’t have any new stories, and any enemies seemed to have learned their lesson for the day and were hiding out god knows where.
With all the tedium around, the peculiar little fish and his junkie cell mate caught his eye as they wandered through the yard towards a nearby stand of bleachers. It had become hard to miss that pointy hair, and he could’ve sworn the boy was practically prancing. He kept walking like that and some big nigger was gonna break him in two, and T-Bag doubted he’d stop it this time. New inmates were always filing in, there had to be better meat than the identity challenged boy.
When it looked like the two would just be talking, his attention drifted to the zipper of his coat that had broken that morning. He was still fiddling with it when a cry broke above the laughs and shouts of the yard. Not an all too rare occurrence, and he’d have ignored it if not for the continued moaning coming from nearby. Slowly turning his head to tell whoever it was to kindly shut the hell up, his line of site was filled with that insolent little Maytag, grinning like he’d won the lottery. T-Bag was just pushing himself up when he froze.
Maytag slowly withdrew his right hand from inside his coat, still holding the crude and quite ridiculous shank covered in blood that had run down his hand and onto his forearm. Over his shoulder was the cell mate, writhing in pain and clutching at what T-Bag imagined was one hell of a jagged stab wound. Climbing to his feet, he pulled Maytag to his side, hand shielded between them as they walked in the other direction.
On the other side of the yard, all that could be heard were the residual shouts relaying what had happened. Luckily none seemed to be saying who had done it. T-Bag backed Maytag against a wall, a comfortable distance from any guards, and shielded his bloody hand from anyone’s view. “The hell you doin’, kid?” Maytag giggled, raising his stained hand for T-Bag’s inspection. “Jesus, you wanna go to the SHU for the rest of your bid? You really are a terrible murderer, you know that?” Maytag’s giddy celebration faded, not getting quite the response he’d hoped for.
“But...I did it.” He grinned again, rubbing the cooled blood between his fingers as it dried.
“Ya sure did. Fatal?” Maytag stared at him blankly, clearly not having given it much thought. “You better hope so or he’ll have Bellick comin’ to drag you off before you even get a chance to wash your hand.”
“I don’t know,” Maytag admitted, drawing his hand back under his jacket. T-Bag sighed.
“Where’d you shank him?” His jacket hung open where he’d never managed to fix that damn zipper, and Maytag pushed it aside with his clean hand, poking T-Bag just under his ribs, off to the side. A little tremor ran up his arm and down his spine, feeling the tightly wound energy under his finger. He wanted to touch him again, but T-Bag was already moving on.
“He’ll live. And he’ll be damn pissed too. That stupid little knife of yours couldn’t do much damage no matter where you got him.” Maytag’s spirits fell further, drawing his arm deep into his coat, suddenly terrified of what he’d done. He was going to spend the next fifteen years in solitary. “Now now now,” T-Bag shook his head, pulling his arm out and taking the blade from him, “Wipe your hand on the back of your shirt, and keep your jacket zipped up. Ya already got blood all over your shirt stickin’ your hand in there like that. If he hasn’t already squealed on ya, you should make it back inside to clean up proper.”
Maytag did as he was told, rubbing his fingers furiously at the back of his shirt. “What about the...” T-Bag slipped the blade into his boot, pretending to adjust his pant leg, and looked around for anyone paying them too much attention.
“I’ll... dispose of it. Ain’t good for nothin’. I’d take it, but they always search me first in these little mishaps,” the bitterness in his voice laced with pride. “You just got me a strip search when we get in there.” Maytag’s hand was just a slight pink, and he scratched at the remaining bits of dried blood. “Trash the shirt, too.”
“Thank you,” Maytag breathed, pulse racing slightly less, but the thought of the junkie who was probably spreading his name to everyone who would listen kept him on edge.
“Relax, kid,” T-Bag smirked, leaning forward to speak directly in Maytag’s ear, “You’ll thank me later.”
The entire afternoon and evening had been rather slim in people and questions. Either no one had seen him actually do the deed, or they didn’t see a reason to rat him out. A guard stopped by to say the cell mate was alive, off his ass on pain meds, but alive. Maytag forced a relieved reaction, but the dread washed over him as soon as he’d walked away. Surely he’d be turned in once the man was lucid again.
But he’d managed to file back into the building, scrub his hand, and trash his shirt. It was still there, in the cell, but it didn’t look like they were going to search him. Probably too busy off searching the T-Bags of the place to bother suspecting the new kid. He’d find a way to sneak it out and dump it somewhere far away from him, too nervous to let it go with normal garbage.
At lights out, no guards had come to haul him away to the hole, and he managed to catch a few hours of sleep between his tossing and turning. He thought he heard T-Bag at one point before A Wing settled down, but maybe he was imagining it. Surely he’d managed to get rid of the blade, if he hadn’t, Maytag prayed he’d just make his death quick and easy when he was let out of solitary.
“Yo, Buchanan, up n’ at ‘em,” the CO barked, startling Maytag from his reading. This was it. The jackass had ratted him out, and he was looking at an extended sentence and a trip to the SHU.
“What’s up?” Maytag hoped his voice hadn’t shook too much as he slowly approached the bars.
“Got an order to transfer ya, grab your shit n’ get moving.” Maytag stared in confusion. “Move!”
Gathering his tiny amount of belongings into a bag, he followed the CO down the stairs, ignoring the cat calls from various inmates. His heart was in his throat when they stopped, shouts for the cell door to be opened almost drowned out by the noise of A Wing. As the bars slid aside, T-Bag smirked, making no attempt at getting up to welcome his new cell mate.
“Here ya go, Bagwell.” Nudged inside, the door slammed closed behind Maytag as the guard strolled away.
“Thank you, Crawford,” T-Bag called after him, eyeing Maytag as he stood awkwardly against the wall. “Come on now, boy, make yourself at home. Hope you ain’t still got that dirty shirt in there.” Maytag shook his head, setting his bag on the floor. “Sit, sit.” He did as he was told, perching himself on the edge of the bed, as far from T-Bag as he could get.
“He’s alive,” he said quietly, trying not to look at the way T-Bag stared.
“I’ve heard. He won’t talk.” Maytag’s brow furrowed. “Let’s just say one of my boys made him a little proposition while the pretty doctor’s back was turned. He turns you in, he won’t live through the next shanking.” T-Bag laughed as Maytag’s mouth gaped.
“The transfer?”
“I thought we had an understanding,” T-Bag sulked with mock indignation, “I save you, you thank me.” Maytag’s face was still a mass of uncertainty, and T-Bag was beginning to think he was as slow as he was incompetent. Sitting up, he moved closer to Maytag. “Ya see, I’ve been in a bit of a quandary. My last cell mate met with an...unfortunate demise.”
“Uh,” Maytag desperately wanted to say something, express how grateful he was, the excitement all T-Bag’s attention was creating, but that unfortunate demise part killed his entire train of thought.
“Aw, now, you don’t have to thank me, boy. Not with words, anyhow. You already proved ya can’t kill no one or keep yourself outta trouble, so,” he reached down, turning out his pocket, “long as you hold onto this and stay close, I’ll keep all them away from ya.” Maytag stared at the white material. He was being asked to be next to T-Bag at all times? Fuck the pocket, he’d walk around on a leash if T-Bag asked him to. Trying not to grin or look too silly, he hesitantly reached for the pocket.
“That a boy,” T-Bag smiled. For all his shortcomings, at least he was a fast learner. And the way he trailed his fingers down T-Bag’s side and rested his hand on his leg as he grabbed the pocket, he seemed like good fun in other areas as well. “You ever hung a sheet, Maytag?”
Character/Pairing: T-Bag/Maytag
Prompt: #56, "Want"
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Second half of "What'd You Really Do", Maytag wants to be in T-Bag's gang oh-so-badly
Author's Notes: Um, yeah. Not much other than I dare say there's a relatively short third part to this because T-Bag is just too damn nice. It's all in the friendly "first meeting with Seth"-esque phase, and we all know that's just reelin' 'em in before he moves in for the kill. So for anyone who reads this and wonders where our beloved ruthless murderer is, he's there. Just hiding. But I'll bring him out in a third part. B) This was Maytag's moment to shine. And the name change is intentional after a certain important point.
Back and forth, back and forth, shoes clicking concrete, arms crossed over chest, back and forth, thinking so hard, back to the bars, can’t see a thing, everyone shouting, so loud, back and forth, make a plan, back again...
“Jesus, sit the fuck down,” Jason’s cell mate ordered from the top bunk, about ready to throw his book at the boy’s head. Jason stopped pacing at the bars and stared out, the cold metal pressing into his arm.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, scanning the cells across from them again. Nothing was going on. He wished he could see T-Bag’s cell. It was below them and down a ways, sometimes he could hear his voice above the others, joining one of the shouting matches. But he couldn’t see, and he wanted to see. “Wonder what he does.” A groan from the top bunk, not even needing Jason to specify who “he” was.
“Ain’t anything good. Whatever goes on down there, you don’t wanna know.”
Jason stared down as far as he could, as if he could will T-Bag’s cell to come into view. “I just wanna see,” he sighed, settling on watching a couple inmates across from them playing cards.
“Wait till he gets a new cellie. Whole cell block will hear. Whatever sick crush you got on that guy, s’gonna get you into trouble.”
“I don’t have a crush,” Jason spat, anger smoldering behind his dark blue eyes. He didn’t want romance, to be wined and dined and given roses and candy. He just wanted to be part of T-Bag’s little club, allowed to stand with him and walk with him and join the stupid fights that broke out.
“Whatever, dude, but when your ass is bleeding, and he shanks you, y’ain’t gettin’ any sympathy from me.”
“Shut up n’ count your track marks or something.”
Days passed, T-Bag largely ignoring the boy but shooting piercing looks his way whenever he caught him staring. Jason tried to stop watching, tried to learn chess and new card games, but his attention always wandered back to the tight t-shirt sporting figure strutting across the yard. Even with T-Bag’s threat fresh in his mind, temptation got the better of him.
Members of the Alliance took every opportunity to push him around, his body covered in bruises from being pushed into doorframes and knocked to the floor. But he always picked himself up and moved on. He’d show them soon enough.
The scene in the showers was nearly forgotten by the time Jason’s cell mate joined him for a game of poker in the yard, shuffling the well worn cards that barely had any pictures left on them, and dealing a hand. Jason’s was crap. Two of the cards had the numbers and suit written on them in blue pen because so much ink had worn off. The man had to get new cards. At least making an attempt, he threw three of them back and got his new cards before spilling what was on his mind.
“Can you help me with somethin’?”
“Depends,” the man mumbled, deep in thought over his cards. There was no money on the line, not even any possessions they could bet. Jason was slightly annoyed at how long he took.
“I need a piece of metal. Or...something.” His cell mate cocked an eyebrow, peering over the edge of his cards.
“For what?”
“I just need it, ok?” Jason snapped, wary of sharing too much of his idea.
“Only reason someone needs a piece of metal in here is a shank. Ain’t a whole lot of arts n’ crafts going on.” When Jason didn’t answer, he sighed, setting his cards face down on the bench between them. “You don’t need one. It’ll just get you hurt worse.”
“I ain’t gonna hurt no one, it’s just in case.”
“In case what?” he laughed, “T-Bag comes after you? Man, you could have ten knives n’ nothing’s gonna help you then. He’ll have you stripped, fucked, and dead before you even get your hand on one.” The thought made Jason shiver a little. Not the threat, the idea of T-Bag’s prowess with a blade. It was fitting, he decided.
“Maybe. But it’s just to make me feel better,” he pouted a little, a new approach in order. As his cell mate looked at the boy’s suddenly innocent eyes and bottom lip sticking out, his expression softened. Picking up his cards again, he groaned.
“It’s a bad idea. But,” he hesitated, knowing it would bring Jason nothing but trouble to be in possession of a weapon. All else failed, maybe Bellick would catch him with it and send him off to solitary, away from T-Bag for awhile. “I’ll get it for you. Just a little one.”
“Thank you,” Jason said sincerely, smile spread across his face. With the technicalities all in order, he just had to finalize the details.
It was a nice thin piece of steel. Or something. Jason had never really known the difference, but it was shiny, and already pretty sharp, and it would do fine. Needed something to hold onto, all the edges were pointy, and it hurt his hand to hold it very hard. His cell mate had said it was scrap from the shop, smuggled out in return for trafficking some unmentionable goods to another inmate. It made Jason a little sad to think of the man putting himself on the line for his own needs, but the feeling quickly passed when he thought of how proud he would make T-Bag.
Ripping a strip of fabric off one of his t-shirts, he wrapped it around the duller end of the scrap, creating enough of a handle to not cut his own hand. After a few test runs, thrusting at the air in front of him, threatening the wall of his cell, he shoved it under his mattress before anyone else saw.
Somehow, sleep came easier knowing that inches below was that potentially deadly little object. Or maybe it was the thoughts of how impressed T-Bag would be with little Jason....little Maytag, he scoffed, already hating the name. But he wasn’t about to argue with someone who called himself T-Bag.
The sun had tried to break out from behind the clouds a few times but never quite made it. All the yard saw was a slightly brighter gloom in the monotony of green grass, clouds, and blue prison outfits. T-Bag sat reclined on the bleachers, bored with the terribly uneventful afternoon and considering scaring up some trouble with the black inmates if something didn’t happen. His boys didn’t have any new stories, and any enemies seemed to have learned their lesson for the day and were hiding out god knows where.
With all the tedium around, the peculiar little fish and his junkie cell mate caught his eye as they wandered through the yard towards a nearby stand of bleachers. It had become hard to miss that pointy hair, and he could’ve sworn the boy was practically prancing. He kept walking like that and some big nigger was gonna break him in two, and T-Bag doubted he’d stop it this time. New inmates were always filing in, there had to be better meat than the identity challenged boy.
When it looked like the two would just be talking, his attention drifted to the zipper of his coat that had broken that morning. He was still fiddling with it when a cry broke above the laughs and shouts of the yard. Not an all too rare occurrence, and he’d have ignored it if not for the continued moaning coming from nearby. Slowly turning his head to tell whoever it was to kindly shut the hell up, his line of site was filled with that insolent little Maytag, grinning like he’d won the lottery. T-Bag was just pushing himself up when he froze.
Maytag slowly withdrew his right hand from inside his coat, still holding the crude and quite ridiculous shank covered in blood that had run down his hand and onto his forearm. Over his shoulder was the cell mate, writhing in pain and clutching at what T-Bag imagined was one hell of a jagged stab wound. Climbing to his feet, he pulled Maytag to his side, hand shielded between them as they walked in the other direction.
On the other side of the yard, all that could be heard were the residual shouts relaying what had happened. Luckily none seemed to be saying who had done it. T-Bag backed Maytag against a wall, a comfortable distance from any guards, and shielded his bloody hand from anyone’s view. “The hell you doin’, kid?” Maytag giggled, raising his stained hand for T-Bag’s inspection. “Jesus, you wanna go to the SHU for the rest of your bid? You really are a terrible murderer, you know that?” Maytag’s giddy celebration faded, not getting quite the response he’d hoped for.
“But...I did it.” He grinned again, rubbing the cooled blood between his fingers as it dried.
“Ya sure did. Fatal?” Maytag stared at him blankly, clearly not having given it much thought. “You better hope so or he’ll have Bellick comin’ to drag you off before you even get a chance to wash your hand.”
“I don’t know,” Maytag admitted, drawing his hand back under his jacket. T-Bag sighed.
“Where’d you shank him?” His jacket hung open where he’d never managed to fix that damn zipper, and Maytag pushed it aside with his clean hand, poking T-Bag just under his ribs, off to the side. A little tremor ran up his arm and down his spine, feeling the tightly wound energy under his finger. He wanted to touch him again, but T-Bag was already moving on.
“He’ll live. And he’ll be damn pissed too. That stupid little knife of yours couldn’t do much damage no matter where you got him.” Maytag’s spirits fell further, drawing his arm deep into his coat, suddenly terrified of what he’d done. He was going to spend the next fifteen years in solitary. “Now now now,” T-Bag shook his head, pulling his arm out and taking the blade from him, “Wipe your hand on the back of your shirt, and keep your jacket zipped up. Ya already got blood all over your shirt stickin’ your hand in there like that. If he hasn’t already squealed on ya, you should make it back inside to clean up proper.”
Maytag did as he was told, rubbing his fingers furiously at the back of his shirt. “What about the...” T-Bag slipped the blade into his boot, pretending to adjust his pant leg, and looked around for anyone paying them too much attention.
“I’ll... dispose of it. Ain’t good for nothin’. I’d take it, but they always search me first in these little mishaps,” the bitterness in his voice laced with pride. “You just got me a strip search when we get in there.” Maytag’s hand was just a slight pink, and he scratched at the remaining bits of dried blood. “Trash the shirt, too.”
“Thank you,” Maytag breathed, pulse racing slightly less, but the thought of the junkie who was probably spreading his name to everyone who would listen kept him on edge.
“Relax, kid,” T-Bag smirked, leaning forward to speak directly in Maytag’s ear, “You’ll thank me later.”
The entire afternoon and evening had been rather slim in people and questions. Either no one had seen him actually do the deed, or they didn’t see a reason to rat him out. A guard stopped by to say the cell mate was alive, off his ass on pain meds, but alive. Maytag forced a relieved reaction, but the dread washed over him as soon as he’d walked away. Surely he’d be turned in once the man was lucid again.
But he’d managed to file back into the building, scrub his hand, and trash his shirt. It was still there, in the cell, but it didn’t look like they were going to search him. Probably too busy off searching the T-Bags of the place to bother suspecting the new kid. He’d find a way to sneak it out and dump it somewhere far away from him, too nervous to let it go with normal garbage.
At lights out, no guards had come to haul him away to the hole, and he managed to catch a few hours of sleep between his tossing and turning. He thought he heard T-Bag at one point before A Wing settled down, but maybe he was imagining it. Surely he’d managed to get rid of the blade, if he hadn’t, Maytag prayed he’d just make his death quick and easy when he was let out of solitary.
“Yo, Buchanan, up n’ at ‘em,” the CO barked, startling Maytag from his reading. This was it. The jackass had ratted him out, and he was looking at an extended sentence and a trip to the SHU.
“What’s up?” Maytag hoped his voice hadn’t shook too much as he slowly approached the bars.
“Got an order to transfer ya, grab your shit n’ get moving.” Maytag stared in confusion. “Move!”
Gathering his tiny amount of belongings into a bag, he followed the CO down the stairs, ignoring the cat calls from various inmates. His heart was in his throat when they stopped, shouts for the cell door to be opened almost drowned out by the noise of A Wing. As the bars slid aside, T-Bag smirked, making no attempt at getting up to welcome his new cell mate.
“Here ya go, Bagwell.” Nudged inside, the door slammed closed behind Maytag as the guard strolled away.
“Thank you, Crawford,” T-Bag called after him, eyeing Maytag as he stood awkwardly against the wall. “Come on now, boy, make yourself at home. Hope you ain’t still got that dirty shirt in there.” Maytag shook his head, setting his bag on the floor. “Sit, sit.” He did as he was told, perching himself on the edge of the bed, as far from T-Bag as he could get.
“He’s alive,” he said quietly, trying not to look at the way T-Bag stared.
“I’ve heard. He won’t talk.” Maytag’s brow furrowed. “Let’s just say one of my boys made him a little proposition while the pretty doctor’s back was turned. He turns you in, he won’t live through the next shanking.” T-Bag laughed as Maytag’s mouth gaped.
“The transfer?”
“I thought we had an understanding,” T-Bag sulked with mock indignation, “I save you, you thank me.” Maytag’s face was still a mass of uncertainty, and T-Bag was beginning to think he was as slow as he was incompetent. Sitting up, he moved closer to Maytag. “Ya see, I’ve been in a bit of a quandary. My last cell mate met with an...unfortunate demise.”
“Uh,” Maytag desperately wanted to say something, express how grateful he was, the excitement all T-Bag’s attention was creating, but that unfortunate demise part killed his entire train of thought.
“Aw, now, you don’t have to thank me, boy. Not with words, anyhow. You already proved ya can’t kill no one or keep yourself outta trouble, so,” he reached down, turning out his pocket, “long as you hold onto this and stay close, I’ll keep all them away from ya.” Maytag stared at the white material. He was being asked to be next to T-Bag at all times? Fuck the pocket, he’d walk around on a leash if T-Bag asked him to. Trying not to grin or look too silly, he hesitantly reached for the pocket.
“That a boy,” T-Bag smiled. For all his shortcomings, at least he was a fast learner. And the way he trailed his fingers down T-Bag’s side and rested his hand on his leg as he grabbed the pocket, he seemed like good fun in other areas as well. “You ever hung a sheet, Maytag?”